


Night Descending

by deadgirlwriting



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgirlwriting/pseuds/deadgirlwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is a grieving widow about to begin her final journey. But when the dragon Smaug comes to her for assistance after a group of dwarves attempt to kill him, she finds that there is still a story to tell in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which the story begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from an Iron & Wine song.
> 
> Written for a Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt.
>
>>   
> In this world, Lobelia, quiet little gentle-hobbit who's been kicked out of her home by the bully Bilbo Baggins has a dragon arrive on her doorstep. A company of dwarves tried to slay him, and now they need to team up with wizard Sauron against the dark wizard Gandalf to get the dwarves out of the mountains, before they begin supplying the dark elves with material for their foul deeds. 
>> 
>> **tl;drall the alignments are switched.** Good become evil, evil becomes good.
> 
> I took some liberties with the prompt (namely because I can't imagine Lobelia as being anything other than a umbrella-wielding, snarky badass), and I'm definitely going to mess with canon quite a bit. I was never much fond of Tolkien's concept of good and evil (namely, there are some creatures which are Born To Be Evil and Will Always Be Evil No Matter What) so this is my opportunity to play around with it.
> 
> Also, I have chosen to put Hardbottle in Northfarthing. I can be forgiven for this particular liberty, as Tolkien didn't know where he had left it half the time anyway. Also, I believe I picked up the idea that "soft-foot" is a rude thing to call someone when you're a hobbit from some fanfic or another, though I can't seem to remember where.

There was not a more pleasant place on Middle Earth than the Shire, and yet Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was miserable. Perhaps it was the whispers behind her back, or the looks of pity people would shoot her when they thought she wasn’t looking, but Hobbiton had ceased to have its charms for her. The rolling green hills and the cloudless skies only served to make her sigh, while the friendly, gossipy natures of her neighbors grated on her nerves. Northfarthing was much more scarcely populated, and everyone knew when to mind their own damn business. Here, she felt as if she was a firefly caught in a glass jar and subject to the inquiring gaze of everyone in the village. It was intolerable. 

Hobbits were not necessarily early risers, especially the more aristocratic ones, but Lobelia came from farmer stock. She was used to getting out of bed in the dark and watching the sun rise over the fields of barley. Mornings were difficult for her now. There were some days she couldn’t get out of bed, even to make herself a cup of tea and some toast. What use was there eating if she had no one to share her table with? There was mending to be done and washing up to do, but most days, Lobelia didn’t see much of a point in it. She had difficulties seeing the point in anything lately. It was three months since Otho had passed, and it already felt like a lifetime. She barely made it past her front door anymore, unless her purpose was to sit in the garden and smoke a pipe or two by herself. 

Soon, however, she would be leaving for the last time.

As it was, she had to make the trip to the bakery that morning; there was no way around it. Twice baked bread kept well and was good for journeys, and it gave her the opportunity to take one last look at the countryside where she had spent some of the happiest days of her life. Lobelia had quietly made up her mind to leave Hobbiton for some time, and had almost finished packing up her meager belongings; much of the furniture had been sold off in the previous months, to pay for various expenses. It wasn’t as if she had been particularly wealthy before, but in the wake of her husband’s death and the events that followed, she had fallen on hard times. At least it made for a lighter load. 

It was hard to face her fellow gentlefolk in the harsh light of day, to look them in the eye and smile and make light conversation, but she managed somehow. She even, in a more foolish moment, began to wonder if she might miss this place and its people after all. Lobelia thought she saw the flash of a yellow waistcoat on the road ahead, and her eyes widened. Oh no. Not him, not today. It was too late. He had seen her, and was heading for her direction. She tried to casually pick up her pace, but it was no use. Lobelia should have known she would have had to face him at one point or another, but she had hoped that she could slip away under his nose. Fate had other plans in mind, apparently.

“Mistress Bracegirdle.”

Lobelia took a deep breath and, putting the closest thing she had to a pleasant expression on her face, turned to face one of the most loathsome people she had ever know. Hobbits by nature are not particularly vicious creatures. They are not given to the same murderous or pernicious passions which are to be found in the Big Folk; their caprices tended to run on a much, well, smaller scale.

That being said, hobbits were not unfamiliar with greed, with hunger, with desire. They were jealous and covetous and lacked self-control. What they wanted, they took. They held grudges for generations, with sons picking up where their fathers left off. Oh, they lived in an unfailingly polite society, and truth-be-told, very few of their folk had the capacity for real mischief, but all apples had the potential to be rotten when you bit into them.

And Bilbo Baggins was as rotten as they came, in her opinion.

He stood there, wearing a too-fine overcoat and a genial smile, and Lobelia felt old stirrings of hatred awaken in her heart. After the silence stretched on between them for a few beats too long, she realized that he wanted her to acknowledge him. By the great Took, he really was petty. He was baiting her, using her maiden name, calling out to her in public as if they were acquaintances, friends even. Still, it was probably in her best interests to humor him. It wasn’t as if things could sour between them any further than they already had. 

“Master Baggins,” she muttered, inclining her head ever so slightly.

“Good morning Lobelia.” His smile was friendly, though Lobelia suspected his intentions were anything but.

She shifted her basket on her hip, hoping he would just get to the point as quickly as possible. “Is it?” she said archly, before pursing her lips. Bilbo coughed politely, took a drag on his pipe, and coughed some more. Lobelia supposed this was not the conversation starter he had imagined. She was not particularly inclined to aid him, and he was left to flounder on his own for a moment or two.

“Lovely weather we’ve been having,” Bilbo said, seeming to have recovered his equilibrium.

“It’s been positively hateful,” she snapped. “The heat has been playing havoc with my tomatoes.”

He hmm-ed and hum-ed noncommittally. “So you do still keep to your gardening, eh? Capital. I was thinking of putting in a potato patch myself.”

“Really. Fascinating.” 

Bilbo must have missed the sarcasm in her tone for he continued on, still wearing that same bland smile on his smug little face. “I was wondering if perhaps I could solicit your services for such an endeavor. Your family has quite a bit of experience in tilling the land, I believe. I would be more than generous with your compensation.”

She had gone utterly still, her fist clenching on the handle of her umbrella. How dare he. How dare he insult her by offering her a sham of a job, when they both knew the wages he offered would be paid with money that was rightfully hers? To add insult to injury, he had invoked her father’s profession. The sheer insolence and arrogance of the man left her seething. 

“I don’t need your charity,” she hissed from between clenched teeth. Bilbo didn’t seem to take the hint, however.

“I was simply trying to help you, Lobelia. Potatoes are nothing to me in comparison to your happiness.” He leaned forward slightly, and made as if to put his hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, and he frowned. “You’re not looking well, if I say so myself. And it’s not just me thinking this, everyone’s noticed. Let me help you.”

But Lobelia was having none of it.

“You listen to me you soft-footed fool,” Lobelia spat, jabbing Bilbo in the chest with her red umbrella, “and you listen well. Cheating me out of my rightful inheritance is one thing, but tricking me out of my precious time is another; I have better places to be than standing around listening to you prattle on for the sake of listening to your own voice. You’re not benevolent or amusing or clever. You, Bilbo Baggins, are a coward and a thief and I have no patience for either of those things.”

“Now,” she said, lifting her chin, “unless the next words out of your mouth are an apology, I will bid you good day, even though you don’t deserve it.”

Lobelia was much too angry to enjoy the look of surprise on his face. Spinning on her heel, Lobelia tramped away, muttering curses upon the whole Baggins family (excepting her poor dead Otho, naturally). Bilbo made no attempt to stop her; it was likely he was too busy sputtering on his pipe. _Good_ , she thought viciously. _I hope his waistcoat catches on fire._

What anger she had was quickly cooling, leaving her feeling emptier than before. Without her rage to carry her, the walk back to her hobbit hole was a miserable affair indeed. The morning had been ruined, and reminded her of how very glad she would be to see the last of Westfarthing. Not for the first time, she wished she had just stayed in Hardbottle. Oh, she never regretted meeting Otho, not even when his family protested and her mother threw a fit. Lobelia had never been anything but headstrong, and no amount of nagging or cajoling or dark looks cast across tables could deter her in the best of times. Love had given her armor that no words could crack. She would have moved mountains for him, but all he had asked was that she move to Westfarthing and allow him to spend the rest of his life at her side.

Otho had loved Hobbiton, but Lobelia hated the place. She missed the winter snows and hard rains up in Hardbottle. She missed her sister and her brother and her parents. And there wasn’t a day that went by without her thinking of Otho, remembering his warm hands, his smile, and his slight lisp. More and more often, however, she had found that she could no longer recall the exact shape of his face, or the placement of the flecks of gold that had shone out of his laughing eyes. When she feared she was beginning to forget him, Lobelia would go and bury her face in his old shirts, trying to find some way to keep him alive. But he was gone, he had left this place, and she could not follow him. Not yet, anyway.

The door to the Sackville-Baggins residence was painted a cheerful yellow, a color that Otho had personally selected. Lobelia felt a funny sort of tickling rise in her throat, and hoped she wasn’t about to start crying. She couldn’t bear it, not now. Crying was for the dark of night in the comfort of your own bed, where no one could hear you. It was still quite early and Mr. Gamgee was passing by and one of her neighbor’s children was playing in the dirt across the way, and no, she wasn’t going to cry. Lobelia fumbled with the door desperately, and managed to stumble in before her shoulders began to shake in earnest. She made it into the pantry before she collapsed on the ground, fisting her hands in her skirts. Her whole body trembled from the force of her grief, and she wept.

Even after her tears had dried, Lobelia sat on the floor, unmoved by the world. Otho had brought laughter and love into her life; without him, even the brightest of July mornings seemed grey and empty. The sun had left her, and she was alone in the dark.


	2. in which a conversation is held between a hobbit and a dragon.

Hardbottle was close to the North Moors, where the harsh wind blew through the scraggly hills and the Shire’s only snow fell. Hardbottle could be cold and unforgiving, but it was home, and home meant family. Sitting in the window seat of her brother’s Smial and enjoying the warmth of the mid-day sun, Lobelia finally felt at peace. Her late husband’s property had been sold, and her few precious belongings had been packed up and taken with her to the north. 

Here, in her ancestral home, she finally felt as though she could strip away all the months of heartache and pain. Lobelia had hardly recognized herself when she had arrived a fortnight ago, and from the look on her brother’s face when he saw her for the first time, he had found her in very poor condition as well. She was still slow to regain the weight she had lost in her grief, but her health had been improving daily. She was not happy, but she was calm and collected; she doubted she would ever feel joy again, but at least she knew her own mind without the film of constant heartache to cloud her judgment, and that was good enough for her.

Her brother entered the room, carrying a tea tray, and she stood, smiling. He looked quite a bit like her, with soft, dirty blonde curls and green eyes and plump cheeks, though he had always been a bit softer than she. Bruno was very kind, and quite given to reading books and studying maps and never leaving his comfortable little hobbit-hole unless cajoled into it. In essence, Bruno was the same as he had always been; time and the delights of two children had made him even rounder and jollier, and Lobelia loved him all the more for it. 

He was in very good spirits today, and Lobelia did not look forward to the conversation they were about to have, no matter how much certain things needed to be said. Bruno had thought she came home to get better, that hers was an illness which could be cured with time. Oh, sweet, sweet Bruno, who couldn’t possibly understand how his brave little sister could give up so easily. She already felt like a disappointment to him, but she couldn’t help it. They sat down together, and while he was fixing some tea and chattering on about the projected apple crop for the year ahead, Lobelia tried to organize her thoughts

In the end, it was just best to speak out and acknowledge the oliphaunt in the room. Lobelia interrupted him gently, reaching out to still his busy hands with her own.

“You know why I’m here, Bruno. I came back because it’s my time. I want to die in the place I grew up, surrounded by people who love me.” Lobelia’s voice was strong, and her hands did not shake. It was strange, to finally voice without fear the underling desire that had guided her out of Hobbiton and back to Northfarthing. Her brother’s shoulders slumped, and he looked just as tired as she felt.

“I thought you had more spirit than this, Lobelia,” he sighed, pushing over her cup of tea. She laughed then, softly and bitterly, shaking her head. He loved his wife, she knew he did, but he didn’t understand. Lobelia didn’t expect him to. 

“I’m sure I yet have spirit enough for the both of us,” she chuckled, taking a sip and letting the warmth spread through her limbs. “But I’m tired. I think I have accomplished much. I am a few years shy of fifty, brother, and I have lived and loved and that is good enough for me. I think I have done all I can in the world. I feel my time has approached, and I am content.”

Bruno sighed and helped himself to more honey cakes, pushing a few on her plate as well. For the first time in months, Lobelia felt her appetite return. It was the hobbit way, to greet bad news with food. Bad news, good news, alright news, and news one didn’t know how to take all started and ended with food. Food was there to welcome a newborn and to mourn the memories of the ones who had passed. Their culture revolved around consumption, from birth unto death; all their traditions were a visceral celebration of life itself. 

“What about Bag End? What about Otho’s inheritance money? What about that awful man Baggins? I know he’s given you no end of grief ever since you married into the family.” Bruno scowled, leaning forward. “Have you just given up on all that?”

“I’ve decided that some things are better left alone. I know Otho would have wanted me to have the money, and I know that his parents had intended it for me, but it’s over and done now. I’m a woman who married into a small off-branch of the all-powerful Baggins family. What could I do.” Lobelia smiled then, and her eyes came alight with her old mischief. “Besides, I did manage to make off with some of his silver.”

“You didn’t,” he gasped, and she gestured towards one of the boxes stacked in hall. He went and retrieved it, and opening the lid, saw a fine set of silver spoons laid out in a row. Bruno gaped up at her, and she started laughing.

“I was planning on selling them, but I grew rather fond of them after all. Stuffed them down my umbrella on a whim, if you can believe it. It wasn’t as if he will miss them, he has more money than he knows how to keep track of, I image.” If her smiled twisted and took on a slightly bitter turn, well, who could blame her. Bruno sighed and shook his head, but he was amused all the same. Lobelia’s mind once more turned to practical matters, and her expression became grave.

“After I die,” she said, settling back in her chair, “you may do what you please with them. I brought along Mother’s glory box as well; I figure you could give it to my niece. I have a few fine things left, and I would like to bequeath them onto her and Hugo. I will never have children now, and I daresay yours will not have many memories of me, but I would like to give them something to remember me by.”

“Of course,” murmured her brother. “You know Hilda adores you. She’s almost thirteen now, old enough to miss her aunt.”

Lobelia snorted. “Subtlety never suited you, did it. I know this is painful for you, but please try to understand. I do love you, you know. I never wanted to cause you any pain unless I could possibly help it. You’re my older brother, and the only family I have left anymore.”

“And now I am to have no one,” he said sadly. Bruno held out his hand, and she grasped it, squeezing him for comfort. “Is this really what you want, Bella?”

“It is, Bumblebee. With all my heart.” Lobelia brought his hand up to her cheek, closing her eyes. They stayed like that for a long time, enjoying each other’s company in a companionable silence. He quietly withdrew to his library to organize his thoughts in peace, and Lobelia made no effort to stop him. She returned to the window seat, content to enjoy the rest of the day alone.

Later, she could not say exactly what it was that drew her out to the moor that evening. When she was a young hobbit, she was terribly frightened of that wild, mysterious place. Once a group of boys, thoughtless things that they were, had guided her into the hills and abandoned her there to wander alone. While they ran off laughing at what a great joke it all was, she had cried and screamed and begged for someone, anyone to find her and take her home. And when no one came that night and she had to sleep under a rock while strange creatures made strange noises all around her in the darkness, Lobelia dreamed that the moor itself was alive and the earth had opened up to swallow her whole. By the time she managed to stumble out of the hills and back to civilization, she was left with a life-long fear and superstition of that place. (Naturally, she made sure to give every one of those awful boys a black eye.)

The moors had changed little since she had been that lost, forgotten child. Though it was still a strange place that hinted at some unknown wild magic, she no longer felt any fear. Lobelia stood on a rocky outcropping, staring across the horizon at the orange and red beginnings of a sunset, leaning on her trusty umbrella. It was the first time she had felt strong enough to go out for a walk in a long time, and the fresh air was invigorating. She would have stood quietly, just enjoying the moment, were it not for a strange wisp of smoke that caught her eye. Lobelia froze, believing that her eyes had deceived her. No, there it was again! 

It appeared like a will-o’-the-wisp, like some mischievous spirit determined to draw her into the heart of the moor and make her lose herself in the gathering gloom. Lobelia tentatively took a step forward, then another one, her bare feet silently moving across the ground and towards where she had last seen the wisp. She felt curiously detached from the experience, her heartbeat pounding in her ears like a great drum. Old mysticism awoke in her, and she felt her whole body tremble in a sort of nervous excitement. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was a ghost of the dead, come to lead her into the next life.

 _Otho_ , she thought. _Otho._

The truth, she discovered, was much stranger.

There, beside a large boulder in a valley between two hills, lay a great orange and red beast, the likes of which Lobelia had only heard about in tales. It was covered in scales that shone in the failing sun, with a great pair of wings that folded neatly on its back. It appeared to be sleeping, and Lobelia thought it rather looked like a cat, all curled up with its spiked tail neatly tucked around itself. Every time the beast exhaled, a little puff of smoke escaped, slowly rising into the air before it disappeared into the sky. It was not a spirit that had drawn her here after all, but Lobelia did not quite feel relieved by this revelation.

Crouched behind a pile of rocks overlooking the creature, Lobelia had only a moment to briefly consider how to escape without attracting its attention when the great beast slowly lifted its head in her direction, one of its eyes opening to stare right at where she had hid, though she did not think it could see her. Lobelia had not lost her wits so much that she did not notice the crusted and scabby wounds on his wings, or the blood dripping from the yawning empty socket where his right eye should have been. She shuddered, horrified and fascinated at the same time.

“I can smell you,” a voice rasped out from his great mouth, revealing rows of glittering teeth embedded with what she thought might be rubies. Or perhaps it was blood. Lobelia was not particularly inclined to get close enough to find out. The beast continued on, and she tentatively thought it sounded masculine, although it was so difficult to tell. “You might as well show yourself.”

“What, so you can eat me,” she called out, realizing it was no use pretending not to exist. Her voice trembled, but whether it was from fear or excitement, she didn't know. Lobelia stepped out from behind the rock she had crouched under, her face flushed and her hands trembling. 

The creature gave a little wheeze, and a puff of smoke curled out from his nostrils. Lobelia realized he was laughing. “I am hardly in a position to be a great danger to anyone, little one,” he chortled, and then began coughing. It was a terrible noise. While there was a certain logic to its words, she had no doubt it could easily snap her in two if it so wished. Never-the-less, she found herself slowly picking her way down the hill, stumbling here and there on loose gravel, until she came face-to-face with it. Even wounded, it was held itself with an air of majesty that Lobelia could not deny.

“What are you,” Lobelia asked, breathlessly. It was a very rude question, and if Smaug had at all been himself, he would not have suffered it. However, as these were unusual circumstances, he found himself quite willing to answer her, if only to see the look of awe on her expressive face.

“What am I? Some call me a fire drake, fire-breather, and the stuff of legend. I call myself a dragon,” he said, lowering his head to look her directly in the eye, “but you may call me Smaug.”

So paralyzed was she by his gaze that she did not answer for a time. The dragon coughed politely, and extended one of his great claws to gently poke her in the side. Smaug was quite enjoying himself, for all the show he put on. She jerked out of her revere as he said, “I gave you my name, now I believe it is customary for you to give yours.”

“My apologies,” she murmured. Lobelia felt ridiculous curtseying to this creature, but hobbits were raised with manners and with very particular ideas of how to go about approaching a difficult situation. If she was polite enough, perhaps he would go away. And if he didn’t, well, the Bracegirdles had their own ways of dealing with things (usually involving the business end of an umbrella). His great red eye was a terrible thing, and she very nearly lost her courage under his piercing gaze. Never-the-less, she spoke clearly and without any trembling when she answered him. “My name is Lobelia. Lobelia Bracegirdle of Northfarthing. How do you do.” 

“Very poorly,” laughed the dragon Smaug, but it was a weak laugh, and growing weaker all the while. “Perhaps this pleases you, perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps you haven’t decided yet. Regardless, I like your look. You have a touch of bravery about you, and you don’t smell like any dwarf I’ve ever met.”

Lobelia felt her indignation rising, and, forgetting who she was speaking to, began waving her umbrella at his good eye. “I’m not a dwarf! I’m a hobbit of the Shire. My people are halflings, descended from the old families of Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides; we owe our lineage to no dwarves.”

She might have come to regret opening her mouth if she had the sense to, but Lobelia had a temper, and when aroused properly, it was a fearsome thing to behold. Smaug was even less afraid of her than she was of him, however. He clever and wily, and was already beginning to understand how to provoke information out of her.

“Harfoots?” Smaug pretended to think for a moment, if only to enjoy the swell of her indignation for a moment longer. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of them. Perhaps I ate one once?”

She huffed, but knew enough to recognize the comment as a joke. Lobelia caught on quickly, even in her irritation. She did not fear him. She feared no death, not anymore; yet something inside her believed Smaug would not bring her to harm, even for all his black humor and the flashes of white, gleaming teeth he made sure to show her. 

“Well, what about you?”

“What about me?” Smaug said, his great tail twitching.

“You must have come from somewhere very far away indeed,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t know of Hobbits or the Shire. In fact, I don’t believe you even know where you are at all. You’re lost.”

“Lost? Yes. Lost and wounded with no one but an odd little creature to keep me company,” murmured Smaug, “how fortunate am I. But you are about to tell me where I am, I suppose, so that makes me merely wounded.”

Lobelia needed no further prompting. “You’re close to the boundaries of Northfarthing, in the North Moors. Beyond are what the Big Folk call the Hills of Evendim; to the south, it is all Shire land for many miles.”

“Evendim.” His large eye blinked as he considered her words. “I believe I know where I am, and it is an unfortunate place to be indeed. No offense intended, little one.”

“None taken,” she said dryly. She paused, and then curiosity prompted her to speak again. “Where were you going, if not the hills? Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

The dragon laughed in earnest this time, and she could feel his rumblings all through the earth. Indeed, several rocks dislodged themselves and slid down the hill to rest at her feet. “Even if I could fly, I am much too weak to make any great journey. I suppose I could tell you how I came to be here, for it is an interesting tale and you seem inclined to listen, strange thing that you are. However, my story is a long one, and the daylight grows short.”

“If time is what you need, then I have plenty of it. I have nothing but time anymore,” Lobelia said stoutly. 

The dragon sighed (or rather, he blew a lot of hot air in her face in what she took to be an exasperated manner) and said, “My, but you’re stubborn enough to be a dwarf, aren’t you? You are better company than the rabbits, I suppose, and I have no one else to tell it to. Very well then, a story you shall have.”

Secretly, Smaug was quite glad to have someone to talk to, as it had been so awfully long since he had some companionship. Dragons are quite fond of having willing ears to voice their complaints to, of which they have many, and Smaug was no exception. But as he was about to begin, Lobelia held up her hands apologetically, and he huffed, displeased.

“I need to return home. You spoke the truth when you said it was getting dark, and my brother is prone to worry about me.” While Lobelia had little experience with reading the faces of dragons, she thought she could see Smaug’s expression sour.

“Should I let you go?” he asked, his tail twitching more violently before. For a moment, she thought she might be afraid of him, so dark and low his voice had become. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

“You will leave, little one, to go tell others, and they will come with knives and pitch forks and will finish me off. The only great dragon left, dead at long last.” Smaug closed his good eye, his head dropping forward. “Ahh, but what does it matter? It is doubtful I will live much longer anyway. Go, I will not attempt to keep you here.”

“I would do no such thing,” said Lobelia, who found she pitied the beast, in spite of his insulting nature and his vague threats. She did not enjoy the thought of leaving him all alone on the desolate moor to die; no one, she thought, should die alone and friendless. Lobelia rallied her spirits and smiled. “Besides, you promised me a story, and a story I shall have. I’d invite you for tea, but I’m afraid you would frighten the neighbors. I will return here tomorrow, you have my word.”

Smaug snorted, but did not lift his head. “You lie, but I don’t hold it against you. Leave then.” 

“Nonsense. I said I’d come back and what I say I mean and I mean what I say.” Lobelia tucked her umbrella underneath her arm and straightened up to her full height. It wasn’t a very impressive size to one who could eat grown men whole, but Smaug admired her courage all the more for it. He watched her leave with a thoughtful expression, a tiny seed of hope beginning to sprout in his cold-blooded heart.

She had tarried long enough, and it would be long dark by the time she managed to find her way her cozy hobbit-hole. Lobelia had no desire to spend another night on the dark moors she had gotten lost in so many years before. With her head held high and nary a backward glance, Lobelia began to make her way back to the village, not stopping to think about the ramifications of meeting Smaug again. If she had stopped to question the wisdom of this venture, then likely as not the story would have ended there. As it was, her pride and her curiosity made her disinclined to study the dragon’s motivations too closely; life had become intriguing once more, and that was good enough for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, Smaug has a very great opinion of himself, doesn't he?
> 
> I feel like one of the Brontë sisters, droning on about the ~mysteries~ of the moors. "Jane Eyre and Dragons, coming to stores near you." On second thought, no, that's a terrible idea, let's nip that in the bud. Also, we are going to conveniently forget that will-o'-the-wisps are mostly found in marshes, because I say so and also because I say so. (It wasn't a real will-o'-the-wisp anyway!)
> 
> I feel I should also mention I don't have a beta, so I very earnest apologize for any mistakes I was too tired to notice when I was looking this over. Also, I apologize for the strange juxtaposition of gloomy and comedy in the story. Lobelia is depressed. It's understandable. Making funeral arrangements for herself then going to talk to a dragon, nbd. (I really do want her to heal and not waste away as she intends, but it's not going to happen overnight. So.)


	3. in which a tale is told.

If Bruno was wondering what his sister was doing with a whole haunch of mutton and a basket full of strange jars and ointments, he thought better of asking. Lobelia was stubborn and headstrong, and Bruno could not make heads or tails of her mind these days. Whatever her business was, it was her own, and he had resigned himself to never knowing the depths of her heart. It was unfortunate, but the events of the past few days had driven a wedge between them: not one of love, but of misunderstanding. As a result, each left the other to do as they pleased, and tried not to dwell on the conversation that had lead them to this point. At least this meant Lobelia could come and go as she pleased, as it would be difficult to make excuses for her long absences and strange purchases.

In truth, she was a little nervous to return to the moor. Lobelia had met a dragon and it had been the strangest experience of her life; now she was going to return to him and offer to bind his wounds. While she struggled to remember what decisions she had made that had led her to trying to help Smaug (even though he had not asked), she felt that it was the right thing to do. In stories she had heard as a child, dragons had been fearsome and were always defeated by some brave hero, and she had always cheered him on. Now she found herself on the side of the dragons, and even if he was a villain of some hero’s story, he too had a tale to tell. Lobelia was determined to hear it.

Smaug looked up at her as she climbed down the hill to approach him, and he appeared to be much in the same shape as he was before. Regardless of his injuries he looked quite stunning in the mid-day sun, and she was momentarily blinded by how brilliantly he shone. Hobbits have neither gold lust nor any use for silly trinkets and sparkling stones, but they did have an appreciation for beautiful things. Smaug, Lobelia thought, was quite beautiful. When he didn’t open his mouth, at least.

“You returned. I did not think you would.” Smaug sounded intrigued, and his good eye fixed upon the wrapped mutton she carried under her arm. 

“I apologize for the delay. I said I would come back tomorrow, but I had to make some preparations.” Lobelia hesitated, then said, “I didn’t think you would still be here, truthfully. I even thought that perhaps I had dreamed you up in some silly flight of fancy.”

Smaug snorted, but did not reply. The hobbit and the dragon looked at one another curiously, and found they did not dislike what they saw. They appraised each other openly and without apprehension, and found each other to be equals on the desolate moor. If Lobelia had encountered Smaug any other way or at any other time, she had little doubt that their meeting would not be half so cordial. If Smaug had not been wounded, he would not have let her so close. Their circumstances were unique.

“Well then,” Smaug said at last. “I am not afraid to say that I am glad you have come, and what’s more, come with food.”

Lobelia nodded, and unwrapping the meat, carefully placed it before him. Smaug began to tear into it with much gusto. It was gone all too soon however, and he sighed when he saw she had not brought more.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how much you could take in your condition. No, don’t snort at me, you’re very weak. I also brought some bandages and some medicines, though what good it will do for a dragon, I do not know.” Lobelia set down her basket, then clasped her hands in front of herself. “That is, if you will allow me to help treat you.”

“Very well. I suppose you cannot do any more damage, at any rate.”

Lobelia was surprised by the casual allowance, and her eyes widened. Smaug set down to the task of picking meat out of his teeth, and did not seem to pay her any attention. Finally he sighed, looking over at her. “Come closer then. I will not bite, unless provoked, and you will make sure not to provoke me.”

She could have rolled her eyes, but she suspected that would be in bad form. Lobelia tentatively approached him, eyeing the great pair of leathery wings that folded across his sides. “I need up on your back,” she said slowly, “in order to take a closer look at the damage done and to try to clean your wounds.”

Smaug did not reply, but he did slowly lower his belly down until he was pressed flat against the ground, and looked like a great snake. Lobelia boosted herself up by using one of his hind legs, and carefully, taking hold of the great spikes that went all down his back, slowly made her way up to the place where his wings joined his body. It was slow going, for she was very careful not to pull too hard on his spikes (which she suspected were made of bone that grew directly out of his spine) or put too much weight on any one area of his body. Although he was at least twenty times her size, she did not want to irritate him. He did, after all, have a very impressive set of teeth.

With a minimal amount of grumbling from Smaug, which was to be expected, Lobelia set to work. She was checked for infection, and gently wiped away crusted blood and gravel from open wounds. Smaug had not been kind to himself; she noticed that he was still scratching at his face, and inwardly, she groaned. That would be the most difficult to deal with, and Smaug was not likely to cooperate. Wrapping the wounds turned out to be tricky, and Lobelia was forced to be quite creative. Hobbits were not natural healers, though they did have a good knowledge of herbs. She felt completely out of her depth, but then again, it wasn’t as if Smaug had many other options. He knew that, and complaints about her competency were suitably absent from his petulant mutterings.

“If you keep rubbing at...your eye,” she said carefully, “it will never heal.”

The wound looked, if at all possible, even more grotesque than it had the day before. The place where an eye should have been was freshly bleeding from all the times Smaug had picked at it.

“Nonsense,” snorted Smaug. “It will never heal well. You cannot do much for me, little one. I doubt I will survive this; even if I do live through my wounds, a one-eyed dragon is little more than troll bait.”

“You’re being melodramatic,” Lobelia said, gesturing to his wings. “Things aren’t half as bad as you think. I’m no expert, but I believe think if the poultices do their job well, you could be up and flying again.”

Smaug growled at her, his claws digging into the ground, but said nothing as she dabbed at his cuts. He craned his neck to watch her, and twitched and whined every time she came across a particularly painful wound. Lobelia was not particularly adept at medicines, but she knew that there was scarcely a worse patient this side of the Misty Mountains.

He did not seem at all inclined to let her near his head, making a point to turn away and stare into the distance when she tried to bring up his eye again, so Lobelia gave up and climbed down to the ground again. She had done the best she could, and Smaug could ask for no more.

“The other day, you promised to tell me your story,” Lobelia reminded him as she washed her hands. She sat down heavily, pulling out a water skein and taking a long drink. She had missed second breakfast, and hadn’t thought to bring along a snack for anyone but the dragon. And now she was missing tea as well. Food could wait, however, as there were more important things at hand.

“Yes, I suppose I did. The tale,” he said, “begins and must end with dwarves, and I have little doubt it ends poorly.”

“Dwarves?” Lobelia frowned. “Dwarves come through these parts sometimes, and are decent trade partners when they’re not up to some tricky business. On the whole, they aren’t that bad though.”

“You’re mistaken. Of all the wretched races of Middle earth, dwarves are the worst creatures to prowl the lands,” he snarled, tiny tongues of fire darting out of his mouth. Lobelia shied away from the heat, but Smaug took no notice. “They are stupid, greedy little things who only care for gold and silver and precious gems. They came from dark places where the daylight cannot reach, and they stay there still, watching the world above with jealously and anger in their hearts, coveting all the bright things even their hammers cannot create. And while this is true of many of the lines of dwarves, there is none more foul and corrupt than the line of Durin. Curses on them all! Curses on Thorin the second, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, may his beard be shaved and the crows pick at his eyes.”

Privately, Lobelia thought that Smaug most likely found everyone to be stupid and foul. If she hadn’t, she might have taken his comments toward her race more personally. “And these dwarves,” she murmured softly, “were the ones that bested you.”

“I was unprepared!” His roar made her jump and flinch, and she wished she had not mentioned it at all. Smaug was breaking heavily, and had begun coughing again. Lobelia stood up and approached him cautiously, pressing one little hand into his side. His scales were cool to the touch, and she shivered at the feeling. Smaug, however, seemed to take some comfort in her touch, for his fit began to subside.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” she said humbly. “Please continue.”

He was rather quiet by then, and all the fire had seemed to go out of him. Smaug settled back down, exhausted and trembling. “It is true that they bested me. I was lured into a trap, and set upon by the King Under the Mountain himself,” he said at last. “I…also take a delight in the shining things of the world. I had grown complacent and believed myself to be invincible. They took advantage of both things.”

“Admitting a fault?” Lobelia chuckled gently. “I did not think it was possible.”

“Do not presume to know me, little one,” the dragon said, leaning down to blow a smoke ring in her face. His tone was light, and he seemed to have regained his good humor. Lobelia laughed, waving the smoke away. They settled down to the topic at hand once more, though Lobelia thought he seemed a little more relaxed, and she found herself feeling rather fond of him.

“So, what brought the dwarves down upon you? Surely they must have had a reason, as twisted as it may be.”

“I believe,” Smaug said thoughtfully, “that they attacked me in order to slay me and skin me.”

“Skin you? Why? What could they possibly want with them?” Lobelia sucked in a deep breath, horrified. The dragon shared her feelings on the matter, if his shudder of revulsion was anything to go by.

“For some dark purpose I know not of,” murmured Smaug, a dark cloud passing over his features. His good eye sought the landscape beyond her shoulder, and she knew he was lost in his unpleasant recollections. “When the trap had been sprung, I was too slow to escape. They were clever, and had made nets of Mithril to bind me, and no matter how much I thrashed and clawed at them, I could not break free. I still had my dragon fire, however, and I fought back as best as I could. Many died that day, but not many enough. I broke free eventually, but the damage was already done.

“I don’t know how he did it, but the king managed to pry a single golden scale from my breast.” The great beast rolled over onto his side, displaying his glittering underside for her inspection. There, as he had said, was a large gap in his armor, revealing soft flesh underneath. Lobelia crept forward, fascinated, and reached out to touch his naked skin. There was crusted blood around the area, and taking out one of her handkerchiefs, Lobelia gently began to wipe it clean. Fortunately, Smaug did not quite seem to be able to reach this area on his body, so scabs had set in nicely.

When she pulled back, Smaug was watching her with a curious glint in his eye. “It’s not infected,” she offered, fidgeting under his gaze. The dragon rolled onto his haunches once more, still eying her. Lobelia didn’t at all like the way he was looking at her, and she quickly changed the subject.

“So, what would you do? About the situation with the dwarves, I mean. If you could.”

Smaug frowned, his attention successfully diverted. “It is clear to me now that foul things are afoot in Erebor and beyond, and if I had been at all vigilant, as I was supposed to be, many things would not have come to pass. After my escape I had attempted to reach Isengard, the home of the last great wizard, but I was weak and half blind with pain and lost my way. And now I am here, and you are here, and I believe I find now myself in debt to you in a way that I cannot repay.”

She was dismayed, and wanted to protest that no, he didn’t actually owe her anything, but the words couldn’t come out. Smaug too was quieted by this revelation of his. He was silent for such a long time that that Lobelia began to worry, but at least he spoke once more.

“Do you believe in fate, little one? That certain people are tied together by forces they do not understand? That there is a great plan in the world, working beyond our understanding?” Smaug gave her the same intense look he had before, the one Lobelia hadn’t liked. “I believe meeting you, little one, was fate. I do not yet understand why the powers that be have thrown us together, but I think that our association was no mistake.”

Saying no more, Smaug then curled up into a ball, and Lobelia soon perceived him to be asleep. His words unsettled her greatly, and she was left to mull them over on her own. Lobelia returned home that evening sorely troubled, and dreamed of great piles of gold locked away in the darkness, just waiting for a ray of light to illuminate them. The gold would turn into a shower of dragon scales, which would pile up around her until she could no longer breathe. This dream did not let her rest easily, and she woke up with the feeling that she had left her bed in the night and wandered strange halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having surgery to remove my wisdom teeth today, so it's doubtful that you will hear much from me in the days ahead. I wrote this chapter up rather quickly as an apology for my absence in the future. (I doubt I'll be particularly inclined to do anything but sit around and bemoan my life haha.)


	4. in which plans are set in motion.

“What,” Lobelia said quietly, “is going on here?”

Bruno, who had been pushing a weakly protesting hobbit man into the hallway, smiled brightly in her direction. “All, Bella, just the person I was looking for! You remember Drogo, don’t you? You were such good friends when you were young. I’m off to go talk to Millstone about his turnip crop this year; I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

So saying this he quickly put on his straw hat and headed out the door, eager to escape his sister’s not inconsiderable ire. Lobelia found herself alone with Drogo Foxburr, who looked as awkward as she felt. “Erm, hello Lobelia. Lovely weather we’ve been having.”

“Yes, quite,” she said, furiously thinking about how much she would like to smack her brother over the head with one of his atlases. Drogo shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet against the floor like an embarrassed child, and Lobelia sighed. Her brother meant well, but this was no excuse. There was really no escaping this, so she might as well nip it in the bud. 

“Oh, come and sit down and have something to eat. I was just about to start on lunch anyway.” She gestured to the kitchen table, indicating he should sit down while she busied herself with food; Lobelia had already laid out some jam and toasted bread, which was arranged next to a side of cold ham glazed with sharp blackberry sauce. She made her excuses and went off to go rummage around the wine cupboard for a decent vintage, but all Lobelia wanted was a moment to arrange her thoughts. She hadn’t entertained company in so long that she was afraid she had forgotten how. (Dragons didn’t count, after all.)

When she absentmindedly brushed a curl of hair out of her eyes, Lobelia was horrified to find the tips of her fingers were stained a dark purple, and that wasn’t the worst of it. Catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror in the hall, Lobelia saw that she had flour all down her front and on her face. She had been making her specialty blackberry tarts for the coming Midsummer festival all day, which was why she had spent the past six hours in the kitchen, shooing out her nephew and trying to keep her brother out of the custard. Groaning once more at Bruno’s awful timing, Lobelia brushed off the flour and did her best to make herself presentable.

Drogo probably didn’t mind either way, she thought ruefully. It was true that they had been good friends as children, even if time had seen fit to send them on their separate ways. He had a good bit of grey in his hair, and crow’s feet had sprung up around his eyes, but his smiles were still the same. Lobelia got them some glasses, and watched him serve them both two thick slices of ham.

“I heard your husband died. Otho, wasn’t it? I’m very sorry.” Lobelia went utterly still, her lips pressed tightly together. Drogo had never been very tactful, but at least he was utterly sincere in his sentiments. She gave him a tired little smile.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” With steady hands, she poured him a glass of wine and handed it over. Lobelia sat down, not feeling hungry anymore. In the strange twist her life had taken recently, she had almost forgotten she was a grieving widow, and not a wild little fauntling on some fantastical adventure.

“My wife…” Drogo hesitated, then continued, his voice soft. “My wife Daisy, she passed a few years ago. I know it’s not very comforting right now, but things get better in time. I promise.”

“You’re right. That’s not very comforting.” 

He chuckled sadly, spreading a bit of jam on toast. “That’s life, Bella. It gets better, but it doesn’t get easier. It’s not fair, but that’s the way things are.”

Lobelia finished off her wine in one gulp, then reached for the bottle again. This was not a conversation she wanted to be having, yet it was as familiar as the back of her hand. It was probably because she had been having it with herself for months; the unfairness of everything was an incredibly childish thought, yet it circled around her mind all the time. “I think I’d prefer we go back to talking about the weather.” She sighed. She didn’t really mean that. “How have you been, Drogo?”

“Fine, fine. I have two children who keep me busy. They could scare off the hair on my toes, the little rascals, but I love them for it. My father gave me the farm, and crop has been good for the past four years. Life has been good to me.” He regarded her with his warm brown eyes, concern evident in the lines on his face. “You know, you’re always welcome in my home. You have a lot of people who admire you, who look up to you. You’re not alone, Bella.”

Lobelia felt a lump growing in her throat, and she gave a shaky laugh, trying to dismiss it. “Did Bruno put you up to this?”

“No, not in so many words. I wish he had been more plain when he asked me to come over. I wish had seen you sooner, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would be welcome.”

He looked so earnest that Lobelia wanted to reach over and gather him into her arms and promise that she was perfectly alright, really. Even if it was a lie, she felt so guilty for making everyone so upset. Of course, Lobelia couldn’t help the fact that she had such low spirits, nor did she regret expressing her wish to be with her husband again, but she wished she didn’t have to drag everyone down with her. It weighed heavy on her mind, even as she changed the subject to brighter, happier things.

Later, after Drogo had gone (with promises to stop by again), Lobelia sighed and waited for her dear brother to get home so she could gently disavow him of the notion of interfering in her affairs again. As soon as he opened the door she was on him, taking his hat and putting away his stick, shaking her head at him. He looked so ridiculously hopeful, it almost broke her heart.

“You’re being meddlesome,” Lobelia told him with no small measure of fondness, pressing up on her tip toes to kiss his curly head. “I appreciate the effort, but it’s no use. I am the same as I ever was.”

“But you’re not,” he said sadly, watching her walk away. If Lobelia heard him, she made no comment. 

Lobelia retired to the bedroom Bruno had given her, her thoughts elsewhere. Tomorrow was one of the most exciting days of the year, being Midsummer Eve, and she still had plans to make in regards to Smaug and his business. Once more she fell asleep and dreamed of gold, piles of it, glittering and beckoning and entrapping her. When she woke in the night, it was in a cold sweat and a pounding heart. She did not sleep again that evening.

Midsummer’s Eve was an important celebration and Lobelia was sad to miss it, as she had always been quite fond of singing and dancing. A great red and blue striped tent had been set up on a grassy knoll half a mile out of the village, and the whole population of Hardbottle was currently congregating around it. Great bundles of wood were dragged and set up into two relatively large pyres, in preparation for the lighting ceremony that would happen at dusk. Many tables and chairs had been set up, and giant kegs of fine ales and wines had been rolled out for the enjoyment of all. A veritable banquet of meats and pies and puddings and every sort of sweet thing had been laid out, and the feasting had only just begun. It was truly the finest sight in all of Shire, and every hobbit was in the mood for celebrating.

Lobelia stayed long enough to watch the tart-judging contest, for which she won some pretty blue ribbons, and to quietly enjoy the atmosphere of revelry. Bruno was too busy trying to keep his niece and nephew in hand while his wife was busy preparing great trays of sweetmeats. None of them noticed her slip away, and Lobelia hurried back to the hobbit-hole to gather the supplies she had been setting aside for the evening. They were lighting the bonfires as she hurried out to the moor, and when she looked back, she could see the flash of red across the horizon. No, they wouldn’t notice her absence now.

This time, when she crept up on the dragon, he was expecting her. Smaug gave what she assumed was a dragon-smile at the sight of her; he had every reason to, as she had been feeding him the whole week. She had even managed to change his bandages with minimal grumbling, and had somehow gotten him to stop picking at his eye, although it still did not look well. She feared it was becoming infected, and was quite beyond her capacity to heal. 

“I thought I might escape the celebrations and come out here; all of the Shire is celebrating, and they won’t miss me.” Lobelia clutched one of Bruno’s precious books to her chest, her curly hair wild and her cheeks ruddy with drink. Hardbottle was known for its barley farms, and as such they made some of the best ale in the entire Shire. Lobelia was not so stuck in her grief that she couldn’t enjoy a nice brew now and then, and she had enjoyed a good many that evening.

Also, it was much easier to approach a dragon when one was quite tipsy. Lobelia gestured to the book in her arms, and nearly fell over. “I brought you some maps. I thought you might like to know where you are, although I’m afraid it’s much too dark now to see them clearly.”

“That’s not a problem,” laughed the dragon. “Bring me some wood, and I’ll remedy that in a pinch.”

Smaug gently blew a lick of fire onto the pile of kindling she made, and it caught flame quite easily. Dragon fire was hotter and wilder than the average flame, and Smaug made sure to keep a good eye on it. Lobelia had no such concern, and instead sat down and opened the atlas, carelessly flipping through the pages. 

“Where is it…Ahh, here we go. This is the Shire. I’m surprised you don’t have it on any of your maps, you’ll have to fix that. Now, you’ll probably want to follow the Brandywine down ‘til you reach the borders of the Shire, and then from there, down, down, down, until you get to the Misty Mountains. I confess I don’t have the slightest clue as to where to find Isenwhatsit, but I think you can find your way.”

“Indeed I can. I have visited Isengard many times over the past few hundred years, I should know the way in the dark.” The dragon peered down at the tiny print, his tail twitching with interest. “Thank you again, little one. You have been quite helpful in all matters.”

Lobelia waved one hand in the air lazily, shutting the book and relaxing back against a boulder. It was strange, but even as much as some part of her yearned to be with the rest of her folk, she felt perfectly at home with the dragon, sitting by the fire and watching the stars. It was not the quiet the suited her, but his company. This revelation was a little too disquieting to examine too closely, so she locked it away, and focused on enjoying the moment.

“I believe your people are celebrating this evening,” the dragon changed the subject suddenly. He was prompting her for information, and not at all subtly. “I can smell the fires even from here.”

“Yes, it’s an annual festival we hold every year,” Lobelia said, amused. “Not at all the sort of stuff to interest you.”

“Humor me.”

“Very well,” she sighed, spreading her skirts out and settling back against the grass. “Hobbits are not very superstitious creatures, but we do like tradition. And eating. And ale. And a good pinch of pipeweed.”

“So I gathered,” Smaug said dryly, amused by her waving hands and giggles. 

(Dragons have a much more difficult time getting drunk than hobbits or men; Smaug would have thought it impossible, except for a story he had heard when he was but a hatchling, of one of his distant relatives eating a whole orchard of fermented apples and got entangled in a tree. Dragons, however, have the good sense not to spread around these stories among other species, as they do have a reputation to uphold, so Smaug just snickered to himself. )

“Don’t interrupt.” Lobelia, who thought he was making fun of her (he was), reached over and gave him a punch in the side. It did not faze him in the slightest, although he did laugh at the face she pulled. “Where was I. Ah, the summer solstice celebration. Yes, it’s mostly just an excuse to eat and drink and make merry. We light bonfires and dance and sing and celebrate the turning of summer and the winter ahead. Hobbits love parties more than anything, and we’re really quite good at throwing them. I wish you could come into the town and see, I think even you would enjoy yourself.”

Lobelia sat up, staring in the general direction of Hardbottle. There was a hazy glow on the horizon, and she knew the bonfires were burning bright still. Smaug followed her gaze, and saw her smile wistfully. 

“It’s a shame this will be my last. You know,” she laughed, “some people believe that the fires are lit to drive away dragons.”

“What utter nonsense,” snorted Smaug. “If anything, a dragon would be attracted by the flame. We enjoy the heat, especially as fire does not harm my kind. We are impossible to burn.”

Lobelia twisted around slightly to look up at him. “I’ve never heard that one before. I’ll keep it in mind though. We haven’t had a dragon in these parts for, oh goodness, hundreds of years. Actually, we have one now, don’t we?”

Looking down at her, Smaug felt a wave of affection wash over him. There are many creatures who are capable of hatred and anger and fear, and there are many who take dark delight in instilling these feelings in others. There are very few, however, who are not also capable of love and of beautiful things. Smaug may have been selfish and nasty, but he did have a heart, disused as it was. And that heart was growing alarmingly fond of the little hobbit at his feet.

“And now you’re leaving,” Lobelia murmured, feeling a strange sense of disappointment. It was more difficult to get a hand on her emotions like this; Lobelia felt as though her heart was laid bare for all the world to see, and that Smaug was taking measure of it. 

“It is unavoidable,” said the dragon gently. “I cannot stay and rest here while there is mischief and dark magic afoot in the world. I have made promises, and I always keep my word.”

Smaug hesitated, and then added, “I have known loss beyond reckoning in these past months, Mistress Bracegirdle, and I would be lying if I did not say that there is more than my good word on the line here. I believe events are soon to unfold that concern all the citizens of this earth, great and small. Your valuable companionship this past week has given me something that I believed to be lost to me forever.”

“And what was that?” Lobelia asked, wide-eyed.

“Hope.” The dragon shifted, bringing its great head down to rest near her body. Lobelia rolled onto her side with a snort, turning to face him. 

“All you needed was some bandages and a bit of food in you,” she said with a half-shrug. “Nothing extraordinary.”

“On the contrary, I do find you extraordinary. And I have a proposition for you.” Smaug’s voice was very, very serious. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure, and I think I have found them.”

“Me?” Lobelia sputtered, shaking her head. “Go on an adventure? I thought dragons were known for their cunning and cleverness, but that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”

He gave her what she assumed was a reproving look, the light from the dying fire dancing off his great red eye. “Don’t make such jests. I am quite clever, and I have found you to be not half as ignorant as some men I have known. I am utterly serious. I think you make an excellent companion; in fact, I am counting on it. You are not only steadfast and calm, but curiously quiet as well. You have almost caught me unawares a few times, no small feat. Perhaps it is some magic of your people, and perhaps it is simply your nature, but I think you have the potential to be of great use to me.”

Lobelia was too dazed by the back-handed compliments Smaug had paid her to reply for a moment. “And what could possibly tempt me to accept this offer?”

“That,” said the dragon quietly, “I do not know. If you were a dwarf or man or even a dragon, I would tempt you with gems and promises of cold gold. I do not believe such things would work on a hobbit; they seem to be curiously incorruptible, if you are any indication of your fellows.”

“Not all of us are quite so good.” Lobelia’s face darkened, thinking of a certain Mr. Baggins. “No, I don’t care for precious metals. I hardly care for anything anymore. I think there is not a single offer you could make me that would sway my decision, so you might as well give up.”

“Everyone can be bought.” 

The dragon’s arrogance grated on her nerves more so than usual, and her incredulous laugh in response was neither humorous nor light. Lobelia was sobering up much too quickly to enjoy this conversation, it would seem. “Everything I loved, I lost as well Smaug. Unless you can raise the dead, there is nothing left for me."

Smaug gazed at her with something like sympathy, if the dragon could feel such a thing. It was an ugly emotion, and Lobelia didn’t like it directed at her. It made her skin crawl with something like shame. “You can have no reason not to come then. You have nothing left to lose, so it stands to reason that you have everything to gain.”

Unexpectedly, hot tears began to well up in her eyes, and Lobelia choked, turning her face away. She was ashamed and angry at herself for feeling so miserable all the time, and she couldn’t even imagine how pathetic she looked. Smaug didn’t know what he was talking about; Lobelia felt like a coward, and she hated herself for it. She found herself pressed up against Smaug’s side, and the dragon humming a nonverbal song of comfort straight into her bones. It wasn’t until her hiccuping sobs began to die down that the dragon spoke again.

“You have all of tomorrow to think on my offer, little one. I fly at midnight, and whether you chose to join me or not, I will not think the less of you for it. Perhaps it is for the best after all,” sighed the dragon. “I already owe you one debt I cannot repay; two would be unthinkable. Rest now."

His melodic and powerful voice soothed her, and she found herself growing drowsy as he spoke. She felt empty, as if she had been thrown out of her body and stood on the side lines, watching. Mostly, however, she just felt exhausted. Lobelia yawned and began drifting off to sleep pressed against the dragon, his cool scales a welcome relief against her hot, tear stained cheeks. Smaug curled up around her, and together they dreamed of flying and dark towers and trees that whispered warnings in the breeze. The fire died down on its own terms, and all was silent in the night. Together, they slept well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm all better now (except for the occasional ache), and back on the saddle. So to speak. And the story is finally picking up as well! 11k+ in and the adventure is just about to begin. ("I am looking for someone to share in an adventure" might not be word-for-word what was used in the movie/book, but I pilfered the general idea of it. I liked the parallels.)
> 
> Yes, I am taking wild liberties with the text/prompt/cultures of Middle Earth. No, I don't care. Eat yer heart out, Tolkien!
> 
> Also, if anyone needs to reference a map for all this talk of mountains and rivers, here you go:
> 
> http://www.palantirblog.ca/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/middle_earth_map_wallpaper_-_Kopia.jpg


	5. in which the adventure begins.

Sitting in the grass with her niece and nephew, Lobelia considered the offer Smaug had made her the night before. Indeed, she could think of nothing else. The differences between Lobelia’s days in Hardbottle and her nights on the moor with Smaug were so stark that she almost felt she was living two lives. When she was in one place, the other felt like a dream. It was getting difficult to determine what she wanted to wake up to, what life she was choosing. The time was coming when she had to make a decision, however, and Lobelia was stuck with indecision.

Hilda was busy weaving a crown of daisies while little Hugo toddled around on his little legs, giggling and trying to grab passing butterflies in his chubby hands. Lobelia smiled fondly at the two of them, before telling Hugo to _come back here this instant_ or else she would have to go and get him. She had been charged with watching the children for the day while her brother and his wife went to go call on their neighbors, which Lobelia had politely but firmly bowed out of. She also had quite diligently ignored any hints Bruno might have dropped about going to see Drogo again. Instead, she found herself enjoying a lovely summer afternoon with nothing but her thoughts to keep her occupied.

Hilda reached over and put the daisy crown on Lobelia’s head and laughed, playfully attempting to wiggle away when she was pulled in for a kiss. Hugo whined when he saw he was no longer the center of attention, and crawled into his aunt’s lap, pouting. She laughed and kissed him too. Lobelia would never have children. Her heart ached at the thought, but it was true. All her hopes and aspirations for a family had been buried with her husband. Before she had met Otho, she had never imagined getting married or settling down. 

Truth be told, Lobelia used to give her parents no end of grief when she was young; she had been young and wild and determined to stay that way. Otho had been quiet and gentle, her very antithesis in every possible way. People were puzzled when they fell in love, but it was generally agreed that he would be the making of her. Lobelia wasn’t stupid, she had known what everyone said behind her back; they thought Otho would tame her, or something equally ridiculous. It was true that their relationship had changed her, but it had changed him too. They were partners, equals in all aspects, and they had shared everything between them. 

Before, she could never have imagined a life where she would have wanted someone like Otho by her side. Now she couldn’t imagine a life without him.

Except, that wasn’t entirely true anymore, was it? Lobelia couldn’t stop thinking about Smaug, or his troubles. He was selfish and rude, yes, but he also had dignity and a quiet sort of pain he carried about him. Lobelia could empathize, even sympathize with him. His story had been incredible, yes, but she had no reason not to believe him. Whatever nasty things he had said, Smaug had never raised a claw towards her, nor did she believe he had any inclination (the jokes about eating hobbits were in poor taste, no pun intended, but could most likely be chalked up to his species and their strange sense of humor). He was neither kind nor gentle by nature, but he did have his moments. 

And what about her? What had she benefitted from their acquaintance? Lobelia was no Took; the most adventure she’d ever had was visiting Bree, and that was because she had helped her father sell his ale to the Big Folk in the town, and that was quite enough for her. She had nothing to prove, not to the dragon or to anyone else. And yet, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was giving up and taking the easy way out. She felt like she was letting herself down by her own willingness to submit to fate and make excuses for herself. Yes, a terrible thing had happened in her life. Yes, she was heartbroken. Yes, things would never be the same. But did that mean she had to lay down and die, or that she had nothing to live for? Did that mean things would never be good again?

For the first time, Lobelia recognized that she didn’t have any answers. Pulling her niece and nephew close, she hugged them to her chest, lost in her thoughts.

By sunset, her mind was decided. After suffering from indecision and anxiety all day, it was the point when she had acknowledged that she would forever regret it if she didn’t go that Lobelia realized that her path had been decided all along. She went and checked the time, then hurried off to go pilfer Bruno’s pantry. He was probably in his library, and although Lobelia wanted to see him one last time. He would probably believe she had lost her head entirely if she tried to explain what she was doing, so she wasn’t going to even bother trying to rationalize her decisions with him. It never ended well, after all. Instead, she found a fresh quill, some ink, and a spare bit of parchment on which she could write him a note.

 _Bruno dearest,_ it began, _I am about to do something you will not agree with, and please believe me when I say that I do not want to cause you any more pain than I already have. I love you, I always have and I always will, but I need to do something for myself. By the time you read this I will be gone, and I beg you do not try and find me. I will no longer be within the bounds of the Shire. Please don’t worry on my account; I have a myriad of reasons for leaving that I wish I could explain to you, but there isn’t any time. Give my love to everyone, and tell Hilda and Hugo that I’ve gone off on important business. They don’t need to worry on my account. If I don’t come back, please know that everything has happened as I believed it would, more or less. I know I’ve been a difficulty, and I had hoped things could be different. I’m sorry for all the trouble and pain I’ve caused. I wish you every happiness in the world._

_With all my love,_

_Lobelia_

Lobelia groaned, knowing that this was possibly the worst apology that she could have written, but she didn’t know how else to put her feelings into words. Oh, and there was no way she could have mentioned the dragon or the dwarves either, but somehow she didn’t think that would have improved the letter any. 

Lobelia went off to finish packing up a few days’ worth of food in a rucksack, and to find her thickest cloak. It didn’t hurt to be prepared, after all. As an afterthought, she added a few taper candles and a flint box. Her good pipe went into the mix as well. From under her bed she took out her brother’s atlas, having forgotten to return it the night before. Taking up the quill again, she thoughtfully added a postscript to her letter, saying

_I’m borrowing your atlas, Bruno. I can’t promise I’ll bring it back, but I hope someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me!_

With an affectionate chuckle she rolled up the parchment and stuck it in her pocket, then quietly made her way out of her room. Like many of her race, she knew how to move silently when need be, and she quietly stole through the house, coming to stand outside the children’s bedroom. She peeked in, hoping to catch a last glimpse of them before she went. They were still young enough to share a room without putting up a fuss, and Lobelia smiled to see the two of them in their separate beds, curled up in the same position. She tucked in Hilda’s blankets and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Hugo sighed in his sleep and rolled over, and Lobelia smiled. She smoothed his dark hair down, and kissed him on the forehead as well. Then she left, glancing once more at their peacefully sleeping forms. That might be the last time she ever saw either of them ever again.

She put Bruno’s letter on the kitchen counter, where it was sure to be found, and left the hobbit-hole quietly. The night was absolutely beautiful, as the full moon had risen and there was barely a cloud in the sky. It was so well-lit that it seemed to be like a pale lantern had illuminated the sky, shedding silvery light on all that it touched. Lobelia picked her way through the moor quite easily without the use of one of her candles, which worried her. Smaug had wanted to fly at night to avoid being seen, but that would be a problem this evening. And what if he had left without her? What then? Lobelia couldn’t bear the thought of it. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. 

“You have come to see me off,” said Smaug, crouching on top of the boulder like a large cat, his eye fixed upon her and his tail twitching. She had never seen him so alive, or so eager. For once, he was neither sneering nor laughing at her. In fact, Lobelia thought he had never made so little effort to disguise his eagerness to see her. She found it rather touching.

As soon as her lips began to curl upward, she noticed an awful stench in the air, and she frowned. It smelt suspiciously like blood. There, in a pile by the dragon, was a great big heap of bones. She squinted at it, and then realized what it was.

“Is that one of farmer Murttle’s sheep?” Lobelia asked, appalled. The other option was that it was farmer Murttle himself, but she didn’t want to think about that. Smaug smirked.

“Yes. Several, actually.”

“That’s revolting,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose. 

“Ahh, but quite succulent,” Smaug sucked the marrow from a bone and casually tossed it back into the pile. She frowned at him, shaking her head. She didn’t suppose he planned to pay for his meal, and it wasn’t as if she could go make apologies to the poor farmer. What thoughtless creatures dragons were! And yet Lobelia still had tender feelings for this one, as exasperated as she might be.

“I’m coming with you,” she announced, completely out of the blue. “I’ve decided it.”

Smaug’s little chuckles were doused as though water thrown on a fire. “That’s quite a change from last night,” he said meaningfully.

Lobelia shrugged. “Well, I’ve had some time to think things over since then.”

To his credit, Smaug made no immediate reply. He simply nodded his head thoughtfully, neither condemning nor lauding her. At last he said, “At the risk of sounding a dreadful bore, have you really considered what you are agreeing to? What possible dangers we might face, what terrible death might befall you?”

“I’m not afraid to die,” said Lobelia quietly. The dragon sighed.

“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Look, I want to do this. Not for you, for me. I mean, I do want to help you, I really do, but I think…I think I need this.” She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I need this, and I don’t have to explain myself to you. Accept it or leave it.”

Smaug laughed, slipping down the boulder to come stand before her, his expression undeniably pleased and self-satisfied. 

“I am not willing to deny the only person who has shown me friendship and compassion in the past hundred years. Very well, let this be on your head. I was quite hoping you would say yes, by the way.” The dragon bared his teeth in what could have been a grin if it weren’t quite so terrifying. “Come, little one. Let us be off!”

Without warning he swept her up and onto his back in one smooth motion, then gathering his legs beneath him, launched them both into the sky. Lobelia clutched him for dear life and screamed with delight, laughing on the back of her dragon– _yes hers, if anything had ever belonged to her, this dragon did_ -and soaring away into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving you two chapters today, to make up for my general lack of updates recently. (I've been busy, I've been having computer problems, excuse excuse excuse, etc.) Thank you for everyone who has stuck with this story regardless.


	6. in which the history of the world is laid bare.

Flying was unlike any experience Lobelia had ever known. Resting between two of the spines on Smaug’s back, her feet dangling precariously hundreds of feet off the ground, she found it utterly exhilarating. And more than a little terrifying if she was being completely honest. Although she might not ever admit it (especially not to Smaug, who would have been insufferably smug), Lobelia enjoyed the way her heart seemed to fall out of her chest every time they dropped a few feet unexpectedly, or when the dragon suddenly dove down towards the river, coming close enough that she could see her startled face reflected back up at her before climbing high in the sky once more.

From the beginning, their journey was fraught with numerous difficulties. They had many hundreds of miles to travel, and while Smaug was powerful and could cover great distances in a short amount of time, he was still quite weak. He could only fly at night, for fear of being seen, and often had to take long periods of rest between flying in order to maintain his strength. What could have been one day’s journey for the large firedrake had turned into several. 

There was also the small matter of Lobelia being rather unaccustomed to traveling by dragon, and Smaug being unused to carring passengers. There were a few close calls where she had nearly plummeted to her death (though Smaug had assured her that he would catch her before she hit the ground, she wasn’t overly confident of his abilities just yet). Lobelia would often climb off his back sore and stuff, though uncomplaining. Hobbits were built for the ground; they were excellent walkers, and enjoying the feel of grass, not clouds, between their toes. It also didn’t help that she hadn’t planned on packing for cold weather, although truth be told, she hadn’t done much planning in general. Her rucksack of food and the clothes on her back had been the only things she had brought, and as hardy as her cloak was, it was no decent protection from the chill that descended the higher they flew. Smaug didn’t seem to be affected by the weather, but the poor hobbit on his back was feeling it keenly.

By the time they landed, Lobelia was shivering so violently that even Smaug looked concerned, but the warm summer’s night soon warmed her enough that her teeth were no longer chattering so badly that she couldn’t speak. Dinner was a quiet affair, a few bites of jerky nibbled in the dark. The only fires Smaug was permitting were little wispy things to serve as dim lights so they could find their way around in the night; he claimed it was because he didn’t want to attract undue attention to them, but it was difficult to believe, seeing as dragons weren’t exactly easy to conceal. It was easier, she found, to sit shrouded in darkness than to argue with him, and she didn’t even bother with it anymore.  
A distant wail, as piercing as a scream, ripped through the night air and Lobelia clutched Smaug’s arm, frozen. “What was that?” she whispered, horrified.

Smaug’s great red eye had turned to the direction the sound had come, and he was peering into the night, his nostrils flaring. “Wargs. No doubt being ridden by goblins. More wretched creatures I have never know. It’s best to stay close to me, little one.”

“Goblins? Like in stories?” Lobelia was much warmer now, but she still shuddered. 

“Yes, like in the stories.” Smaug chuckled, and she could feel the rumble right through his scaly chest. “Do you much enjoy stories? I suppose that only one with an imagination and a taste for the unknown would have agreed to come along. Adventures only happen to those who are willing to open themselves up to it. Perhaps someday goblin children will teach each other to fear the name of Lobelia Bracegirdle.”

Lobelia smacked him in the chest in response to his chuckles. “That’s not funny. Besides, do goblins even have children?”

“Every beast has young. The creatures of the earth and air and sea all have begun as infants in a new, strange world. The fearsome beings made of fire are naught but hatchlings in the eyes of their parents, and yes,” Smaug gently prodded her in the side, “even I am counted among that number. We are all children in the eyes of another.”

Making no effort to hide the way she rolled her eyes, Lobelia shook her head. “That sounds suspiciously like philosophizing for philosophy’s sake,” she said primly. “If you want to talk your head off because you love the sound of your own voice, I can’t stop you, but at least you could say something worthwhile. For starters, you could tell me exactly how much danger we’re in of being dragged off to some cave and eaten.”

“They would not eat me; I frighten them too much. They will not approach me,” said Smaug confidently, “but I cannot vouch for you. Creatures of the darkness always know one another, and they fear my fire. Rest easy, little hobbit. You’re safe here.”

But Lobelia twisted around to look up at him, frowning. “Creatures of the darkness? You’re talking in riddles again Smaug.”

The dragon sighed, as if she was a child who was unwilling to settle down and go to bed. It was irritating, and Lobelia was much too cold and too worried to put up with his condescension. There was something out there in the night, something sinister, and she could feel it all the way down to her bones. “What did you mean? I’m not letting you change the subject and push me away.” If she had the use of her arms, she would have rapped him across the snout with her umbrella; as it was, she just had to stare at him crossly until he finally gave a melodramatic sigh.

“The world is complicated, and made only more so by the inclusion of hobbits (it seems that there are many little races slipping through the cracks). I don’t suppose your people know much of the history of Arda, or of the first people and their fall. If I have to start from the beginning, little one, the telling would take days.”

“Give me an abbreviated version then.” Lobelia arched her eyebrows, unimpressed with his stalling. Smaug gave her a disgruntled look, and sighed once more.

“Very well. In the beginning, there was Ilúvatar, and he desired to create the world. To aid him, he called into being the Ainur, who sprung directly from his thoughts; these great ones are also known as the Valar. He set the Valar to building his creation, with the promise that he had a plan for the beings that would fill it. The Valar set about making trees and all sorts of wonderful things.” Smaug picked at something under his claws, incredibly bored. “Of the Valar, Manwë is the one considered Lord of all. However, Ilúvatar had given the one called Melkor the greatest gifts and blessings. There was none other so powerful or so clever. Now, many of the Valar have ambition and desires of their own, but none more so than Melkor. He desired to create as well, but that is the one gift Ilúvatar never gave him.

“Ilúvatar had given Melkor such great knowledge and power, but had crippled his abilities in the eyes of the other Valar. When he tried to aid in the creation of the world, Ilúvatar rebuked him. Naturally, Melkor fell into anger and discontentment. Even that fool Aulë was allowed to get away with creating the dwarves under Ilúvatar’s nose. When the first race of people, the elves, came into being, Melkor believed he finally had his chance to shape the world. So he took some of the elves and twisted them for his own purposes, shaping them into something new. He taught them new languages and new skills. They were the first orcs (or goblins as you call them).

“You may think the orcs were bad, but that is no great surprise when you think of where they came from. The elves are not particularly virtuous themselves, and fell into stealing and murdering their own kin as soon as they got the chance. That is was a crime that none of the Valar could forgive, and those involved were banished from the paradise that is Valinor, the Undying Lands (where the elves had been given free pass, as was their birthright as immortal beings). By the time the orcs were unleashed across Arda, it was already too late for the elves. The entire race was doomed from the beginning.

“Ilúvatar, of course, had another trick up his sleeve, and that was the race of men. They were quite a step down from the elves if you ask me, but Ilúvatar claimed they were special, and nothing was to be done. Men were the new favories, and naturally, the elves felt their displacement keenly. They were no longer first in Ilúvatar’s affections.” Here Smaug snorted, before continuing on. “Of course, men were also a disappointment. They too fell, and their fall was so great the the Valar were forced to remove all pathways to the Undying Lands so that man was entirely cut off from them. It’s not even worthwhile counting the sins of the dwarves, as they have always been unwanted and unwelcomed. As for hobbits, you are the only one I have met of your race, so I cannot make a fair judgment. Count yourselves fortunate you have been left alone by Ilúvatar and all his bastard children. The orcs are simply another facet of the failures of the one true god.”

Smaug yawned, his large jaw opening wide to show rows of pearly teeth. Lobelia had been right, there were jewels set into his bones. She absently wondered how they had been placed there, but his tale had her too enthralled.

“Wait,” Lobelia held up her hands. “Let me get this straight. Kin killing is considered a supreme crime among the elves, so much that they are not accepted into the Undying Lands. But you also said the orcs are elves, albeit twisted ones. Does that mean-“

“That they do battle with their greatest enemy, only to destroy themselves? That all the elves of this earth are doomed to stay in these lands, immortal and unchanging, until the end of all things? That they will never see the light of the Valinor again? Yes. Such is the mercy of Ilúvatar.” He snorted. Smaug had no great opinion of elves or men (and no opinion at all of dwarves, except to hate them), but even he felt the injustice of their situation. Lobelia, for her part, could not contain her incredulity. 

“Why couldn’t there be an exception? Why are they punished for something that isn’t their fault? That isn’t fair!”

“My, you don’t catch on quickly.” His laugh was so harsh that in made a chill go down her spine. “How many times have you been taught that life is unfair? It is the first lesson any child learns; there is no unified answer to the question of existence, except that it is full of pain. Ilúvatar plays favorites, and it is by his hands that suffering has been brought into the world, but no one dares defy him. And no one ever will, save Melkor. And look what good it did him.”

Smaug’s visage had been twisted into something ugly, something angry and bitter and incredibly lonely. Lobelia reached out and touched him, seeking to soothe his ruffled scales back into place. Hobbits had never given any thought to how or why they had come to be. They simply were. They lived their lives quietly and without thought to the rest of the world, and it suited them just fine. Lobelia wondered if her people would have been known for being so good humored if they were not so isolated from the world and all its ills.

“We all live in the hands of an unfeeling god,” murmured Smaug, settling down once more. “Let’s not speak of this again.”

“You never answered my original question,” Lobelia pointed out, unwilling to drop the subject. As troubled as she was by his story, she wasn’t letting him slip away that easily. She didn’t even know if she really believed him or not in the first place. “And you never told me where dragons came from.”

Smaug, however, was determined to answer her no more; he shut his eye and laid quite still, and Lobelia was forced to acknowledge that whether he was sleeping or just pretending to, he wouldn’t respond to her any more that evening. She stayed awake long into the night, mulling over the conversation they had, and wondering what Smaug had left unspoken. There was certainly something he was holding back from her, and it made her uneasy. Under normal circumstances, Lobelia would have been content to just let sleeping dragons lie, but she had agreed to travel with him on such little information as it was. 

By the next afternoon both Smaug and Lobelia were aware and studiously avoiding the topic of the night before. Besides that lone howl the night before, there had been no other sign of wargs or orcs around their camp. Lobelia took a late lunch of jam, cheese, and slightly stale bread, while Smaug complained loudly about his aching joints and the kink in his neck. It was the closest the two had to a routine, and it was something good to fall back on when things got too awkward between them. Smaug took wing again several hours before dusk, so eager was he to reach the Misty Mountains and the wizard he called ally.

Lobelia was rather apprehensive, but kept her own council. Smaug had been a friend to her, but she had no such assurances from this wizard. It wasn’t that she believed she would be in any real danger, though there was always a possibility; it was that what hobbits found threatening, dragons would scoff at. What dragons found threatening, however, would probably eat her whole. Smaug definitely thought the wizard was dangerous.

Clinging to Smaug’s back, Lobelia squinted into the sunset, trying to catch a glimpse of the wizard’s fortress. When the dropped lower, she finally saw it, her eyes widened. There, nestled between the mountains in a wide green valley, a dark tower pierced the skyline like a claw come up out of the earth. So stark and pronounced a contrast it was that it seemed to suck in all the light around it. Lobelia was unable to draw her eyes away from it. A great stone wall surrounded the tower in a perfect circle, cut only by the bright blue sliver of a river that flowed right through the circle. In the background, the Misty Mountains rose, cool and imposing. 

It was a magnificent sight.

“This is Isengard?” Lobelia yelled, struggling to be heard above the wind. Dragons have keen senses, however, and Smaug understood her perfectly. He nodded, and started circling the valley, beginning his descent.

“It was once a great fortress, built in the Second Age by the race of men; the tower is known as Orthanc. It is now inhabited by the Lord of Isengard, he who the elves call Curunír. I have known him as Saruman, and that is the name which you will come to call him as well.” The dragon hesitated, then continued on in a more subdued voice. “He is a powerful ally, but do not presume to know his mind. Wizards have their own way about things, and Saruman is considered the wisest and most knowledgeable of all his order. Answer his questions honestly, as it is likely that he will know all the answers already.”

Lobelia listened to Smaug’s advice and repeated it to herself for good measure. It was fortunate that the dragon was too distracted with his landing to notice how her pulse leapt in her throat or the way her clammy hands found it difficult to keep a hold on his scales; hobbits were unaccustomed to being around grand folk and although Lobelia was polite enough when she remembered to be, Smaug’s dark warnings sunk down to the pit of her stomach like heavy stones. She slid to the ground on shaking legs, feeling anxious and unprepared. Smaug must have noticed how pale her face was for he nudged her forward, leaving her no time to slip into the background and fight with her indecision.

“It’s time,” Smaug said softly, “to meet the white wizard. He’ll be expecting you. Lead the way, my dear. I’m following right behind.”

Swallowing her apprehension, Lobelia walked through the gates of the fortress, her head held high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, in order to make the dark!au thing work here I've had to retcon a LOT of original mythology. Basically, the elves are kind of damned now. And the dwarves as well, to some degree. The jury's still out on mankind, however, but they don't really take precedence in this story. But more on this later!
> 
> Friendly reminder that one shouldn't necessarily believe everything Smaug says, because at his core he's a liar. Also, if you're confused about what's happening, who the Valar are, and so forth, there will be more discussions about what's going on and why the races evolved like they did and why Smaug isn't telling Lobelia that he was created by Melkor. No fear, my pretties, I do actually know what I'm doing! (Well, sort of anyway.)
> 
> Saruman next chapter! What fun.


	7. in which lobelia takes a turn in saruman's garden.

Lobelia surveyed her room in the tower with mistrustful eyes, unable to shake the feelings of anxiety that the dark tones of the cool obsidian surfaces evoked. When she put her hand to the wall, the very rock pulsed with some energy that she couldn’t identify. Orthanc made the skin prickle on her arms and the hair rise on her feet. Not for the first time, she envied Smaug where he slept outside, out of the gates of Isengard and in the foot of a mountain. For her part, she had been unable to decline Saruman’s offer of hospitality, although she wished with all the fiber of her being that she had. This place was unnatural, and it made her deeply uneasy. What sort of man was the white wizard, that he would willingly reside in such a place, and call it home? To Lobelia, it felt more like a tomb, and with those thoughts her feelings of foreboding only increased. 

At least they were feeding her well, she thought, although not quite as frequently as she would like. Fruits and venison were her bounty, and in comparison to her diet of half-stale bread and jam twice a day it was quite an improvement. The food was not as varied as she was used to, but it was hearty, and it would do. She was already missing the comforts of her brother’s pantry, even though it felt leagues away.

Truth be told, the worst thing was the boredom. She had been put in a spacious room when they had first arrived, and promptly left there while the wizard and Smaug conferred. She, of course, wasn’t invited to their deliberations. It irritated her, the way Saruman had split them up and left her to fend for herself all alone. It smacked of a deliberate plot to her, but she was in no position to contest the wizard’s decisions. Instead, she had taken to wandering the halls, half-heartedly looking for a way out. It had never worked, and although she had discovered the staircase that seemed to lead her down to the first floor, she had never managed to find the front door.

It was the afternoon of the third day she had been in Isengard, and Lobelia once again found herself desirous of escaping her room. Today she was quite sure she would find her way out; like many hobbits, she had a keen sense of direction and a good mind for puzzles. If Saruman wouldn’t come fetch her, then she’d just have to go to him. Lobelia put on a fresh skirt and swept a comb through her curls, attempting to look a little bit presentable. She took her umbrella, made a face in the looking glass, and was off.

Two hours later, Lobelia groaned. This was the fourth floor, she was sure of it. There was a slight crack in the floor in front of the second hand door, one that she had remembered from yesterday. Orthanc was a veritable labyrinth, and it was very easy to get turned around in it. Still, she was absolutely sure that she had managed to make a complete circuit of the entire floor twice. There was no way she could get that turned around, unless the entire floor plan had changed overnight. Being that this was a wizard’s dwelling, the thought was less far-fetched than she would have liked. Lobelia was frustrated and annoyed, tapping her umbrella on the ground impatiently as she peered down another hall and deliberated what to do. That strange door at the end of the corridor was calling her, and although she knew she had no business prying into the wizard’s things, Lobelia had to go take a look.

The door itself was pure obsidian black, like the rest of the accursed tower. There didn’t seem to be any sort of handle or knob that Lobelia could see, but when she pressed her palm against the cool stone, she felt something inside the room press back. She jerked away, startled, then curiosity got the better of her once more. Just as she reached out to push against the door (she thought she felt it give way, if only ever so slightly!), a noise from behind startled her. 

“Mistress Bracegirdle,” said a gravelly voice from over her head. “I had hoped I would find you today. I wondered if you might like to take a turn about the gardens with me. We have much to discuss, I think.”

Lobelia had given a guilty little jump and twisted around to find the wizard Saruman looming over her, his long, thin hands clasped in front of him. He was tall and slim, not to mention incredibly old; Lobelia would not have chanced to guess at his age, except to say she was surprised he walked without the aid of his staff just as often as he used it. His robes to his beard were the purest white she had ever known, and when looking at him in the sun, she often had to avert her eyes from the seer brilliance. In those moments, Lobelia had noticed that he did not wear white so much as a incandescent kaleidoscope of colors, as bright as a rainbow. 

She had never been alone with him in the three days that she had been in Isengard. She had scarcely seen him, and Smaug she had seen not at all. Saruman made her nervous, and as lonely as she had felt of late (for there were servants she could see in Isengard, at least not visible ones; food appeared and disappeared and Lobelia had not seen another soul her whole stay), she had no desire for his company. However, she felt powerless to refuse him, and when he led her out of the tower and into the gardens, she almost felt glad of their meeting.

It was late in the day, and the sky was flush with purple as the sun began its steady descent into the horizon. Lobelia could even make out the edge of a crescent moon as it hung immobile and grey, waiting courteously for the sun to disappear before it would shine brightest. Saruman’s gardens were not quite put to their best advantage in such at atmosphere, where even the smallest of shrubberies cast dark shadows and all the colors seemed strangely muted. Lobelia found the garden to be a little too formal for her tastes; there was nary a twig out of place, and the whole arrangement was too orderly, too restrained. There were carefully cultivated beds of tulips and roses and lavender, arranged along with creeping ivy and fenced in by hedges. It was not a place where nature was enjoyed, but rather subdued for pleasure. There was a curious lack of birdsong, and she didn’t see so much as a single squirrel dart across their gravel path. Lobelia would have found it just as unnerving as the tower if she had not been enjoying the fresh air so much. 

Lobelia found herself stumbling over a tree root, and was rather surprised to find herself in the process of falling flat on her face. What was even more surprising were the branches that shot down and wrapped themselves around her waist, gently holding her aloft before setting her back on her feet. Red-faced and wild-eyed, Lobelia spun to face Saruman, sputtering wordlessly. All around here, the trees were pulling out of the ground and moving about of their own violation. 

“Are those-“

“The Ents. Treelords and keepers of the forest. They are also the guardians of Isengard.”

Lobelia’s eyes were as wide as saucers as she looked up at the surprisingly expressive faces she found looking back at her. The Ents had all the appearance of old men who had planted their feet into the ground and grew eyebrows made of moss and twigs; they looked like someone who didn’t understand how faces were supposed to look took a knife to a tree and carved out all the important bits in an utterly haphazard fashion. She found them charming, if not a bit terrifying.

She wasn’t as shocked as she should have been, really. There had been plenty of strange stories coming out of the Old Forest to the east of Buckland. Lobelia had eagerly listened to tales of trees that groaned and whispered to each other in the night, trees that could walk and talk and crush a little hobbit lass in their great big roots. She just hadn’t thought they were true. What next? Were the rocks also going to sprout limbs and faces? Lobelia already felt exhausted by the wonders of the world, and she hadn’t even been gone for a week.

Saruman must have enjoyed her awe, if the smirk on his face was anything to go by, but his voice was pointedly neutral when he asked her if she would like him to make introductions. 

“What, me meet an Ent?” she squeaked, and the trees around her hummed and creaked in reply. Saruman’s lips twitched and he folded his hands in his voluptuous white robes, inclining his head. “I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than-“

“Nonsense and sprouts. Saruman, hmmm, guest, hmmm, pleased to find you healthy and growing strong,” said a particularly handsome elm to her left, leaning in her direction and shaking its leaves.

“Um, you too.” Lobelia was too surprised to do anything but bow. Repeatedly. 

“Strongbranch, behave.” Saruman shook his staff at the Ent, who made appropriately apologetic rustling noises and ambled off, the ground trembling slightly under his steps. “Surprisingly hasty for an elm, that one. I will call Treebeard to me instead. At least he knows his manners. Introductions take up to two hours when done properly.”

“No!” Lobelia held up her hands. “No, that’s fine, really. I’m sure I will have plenty of time to catch up with them later. Besides, I rather had the impression you wanted to talk to me yourself.”

“Quite right.” Saruman resumed his leisurely pace through the garden, and Lobelia followed, careful not to trip over any more roots this time. The two made their way through an avenue of weeping willows, whose drooping branches stirred with no earthly breeze. Lobelia was just thankful they didn’t try and stop her to make conversation, although she rather suspected it was because they were moving more quickly than the trees could handle. 

“Do you trust him?” Saruman asked abruptly. His voice was casual, disinterested. He was talking about Smaug, of course. Lobelia bit her lip. 

“Yes. And no. But mostly yes.”

“That would be foolish of you, Lobelia Bracegirdle,” the wizard said quietly, his eyes hooded. He was sizing her up, she realized, although she wasn’t sure exactly what sort of judgment he had passed. Whatever it was, he seemed to have come to a decision, for he pressed on. “Smaug is a liar to his core; I do not believe he knows how to tell the truth even if he wished to.”

“I think you’re being awfully hard on him,” Lobelia said quite coolly. Regardless of her own doubts, she felt the slightly bit protective over her friend. Everyone was allowed their secrets, and she had certainly kept things from Smaug. Besides, she trusted him even less than she trusted Smaug.

“I have known him for hundreds of years, my young hobbit. I think I am quite an expert on the wiles of dragons by now,” the wizard snapped, but there was little bite to it. Lobelia narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. She didn’t appreciate his tone or the way he talked down to her, but if he was as wise as Smaug seemed to think he was, she should at least hear him out, whatever he had to say.

“I know little of your people,” Saruman continued, “outside of your excellent pipeweed. I cannot imagine what Smaug wants with you, or what he believes your talents to be. But I do know of his plan to storm Erebor, the dwarf kingdom. And I fear he plans for you to play a certain part in it.

“Tell me, what sort of bond do you share with him, that you should risk your life for the sake of this wretched creature? He only wandered onto the path of the righteous by chance, and will wander right off it again whenever it suits his fancy. I am sure he fancies himself wronged by the dwarves, and it may even be true, but there are larger forces at work in the world. Forces entirely beyond his comprehension. He is leading you on a fool’s errand brought on by his own pride.”

Lobelia swallowed thickly, her irritation choking her and making her tongue feel heavy. She didn’t know how to articulate how comfortable it was to sleep next to a dragon at night, when the hot smoke he exhaled would keep her warm. She couldn’t explain how wonderful it was to have someone who wouldn’t walk on eggshells around her, and treated her with respect. Saruman, for all his wisdom, seemed determined to think her a simpleton.

And yet, there must be some grain of truth in what Saruman was saying. She herself had heard the dragon speak of the dwarves quite vehemently. Lobelia had some idea of a feud between them, but aside from the spare details of how they drove Smaug into the Shire, she was quite ignorant of exactly what had happened to make the two such bitter enemies. Lobelia had the sinking feeling that whatever had occurred, it probably wouldn’t paint Smaug in a very good light (if the wizard’s condemnation was anything to go by). 

“Smaug owes me a debt, not the other way around,” she finally found herself answering. “I’ll stay with him until I feel I’ve collected it, and not a day after. Besides, what I choose to do with my time can be of little concern to you. If I want to waste myself away on foolishness, then I think I’ve earned my right to do so.”

Saruman arched his eyebrows, but seemed to relent.

“Very well,” sighed the wizard. “Smaug has determined the course, and has chosen an ally as unshakeable as he is. However much I deem it unwise, it appears I can do nothing to sway your opinion. I must confess I had rather hoped you could talk some sense into him. I find the actives of the elves and men much more worrisome than those of the dwarves. We must turn our eyes to the west, not the east.”

Saruman did not elaborate any further, but his dark brow remained furrowed for the rest of the walk, which was conducted in silence. Hobbit convention suggested she make small talk about the nature of the compost required to fertilize the many rose bushes artfully arranged across the grounds, but Lobelia didn’t think Saruman would appreciate that sort of banal attempts at conversation. Regardless, she felt much too exhausted by her constant unease and the feeling of otherness about this place. She really wasn’t used to this much excitement.

Together, the wizard and the hobbit made their way through the gathering gloom and returned to Orthanc. The tower almost seemed to absorb the light of the setting sun, sucking in all the brightness and reflecting nothing. The black of the stone seemed less like a color and more like the absence of one; Lobelia couldn’t look at it too long without shivering. Once inside the doors, she wished she had been able to find an excuse to stay outside. Saruman was guiding her back to her room, however, and she had no choice but to follow him.

“And now, I believe, I must deposit you in front of your door and bid you good night. The stars will be bright tonight, and I must consult my charts. There is a great movement in the heavens.” He inclined his head politely. 

“Good evening,” Lobelia murmured, bowing after the wizard. She watched his snowy robe swish around a corner and frowned, feeling no more illuminated than she had when she woke up that morning. Even when she crawled into bed and tucked the covers under her chin she couldn’t get his poisonous words out of her head, spreading seeds of doubt. Just what did Smaug have planned ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO I'M ACTUALLY THE WORST. It's been almost three weeks since I last updated, good heavens. Dedicating this chapter to Irina, because she is also the worst, and regularly encourages awful behavior in me. Next one will be posted tomorrow or the day after. Hopefully. (Now if you'll excuse me, I have five essays to write. /dies)
> 
> Here, have some fanart:  
> http://likefireinanaviary.tumblr.com/post/44403848687/hey-annie-are-you-awake-i-accidentally-doodled-a
> 
> aaaand also a fanmix I made for this story:  
> http://8tracks.com/sectum-sempra/night-descending
> 
> Enjoy!


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